


Land Turned Red

by Tolpen



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bards Gonna Bard, Don't copy to another site, F/M, False Identity, No Beta We Die Like Cailan, Not Nice Language, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Some Original Characters to Fill Up The Space, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, first chapter: written on mifnight; second chapter, look it's a loghain fick which YOU didn't have to write, mild violence, no proofreading either, that's more of an explanation than an excuse, written 8 hours later after a bit of sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28403049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: In a dramatic turn of event, Loghain saves an Orlesian bard from a banquet gone murder. He does not appreciate the irony. Unfortunately, the irony appreciates him.
Relationships: Loghain Mac Tir/Celene Valmont
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassySeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassySeer/gifts).



There is a saying in Ferelden: When you think you've reached the bottom, the Maker shows up with a shovel. Like most farmer wisdom, even this one applies in Orlais.  
When Loghain found him himself with a feathery mask in a middle of a banquet providing a plausible alibi and reason for Leliana to attend, which for some unholy reason required being dressed in deep brown and silver silk with far more feathers and bows and frills and lace than he ever thought possible to see in one room together, let alone on one person let alone that person be his own self, making a small talk with Orlesian nobility pretending to be one of them while pretending to be dancing on the heeled shoes, he thought he couldn't sink lower.  
That was twenty minutes ago.  
Then Loghain reached the conclusion that it couldn't get any worse, and accepted an offered glass of – if he understood Lady Requorfeighe correctly through her thick accent correctly1 – cherry wine. Apparently the alcohol was bad enough to worsen the already abysmal evening. Loghain uses his air of mystery to retreat out of the centre of the dazzle and lights to the sidelines where there are tables with... Let's call it nibbles. The amount – or lack of there of – does not qualify as food, and the feathery silver-brown of Baron Deterre Loghain is wearing doesn't allow much more than nibbling anyway.  
According to Leliana Baron Deterre is not a real person and there is no family of such a title. It is a pseudonym commonly taken by those who wish to remain anonymous for whatever the reason. Loghain was of the opinion that if that is the case, there was no way he could get into a banquet for which he did not have an invitation, let alone bring company. Not only Loghain was wrong, but the Deterres are having a family reunion here.  
As he munches on the horse d'oeuvre, which are a disappointment as they do not contain any horse, he glances around the large hall. From afar the dance floor is not that overwhelming, even though it is still too bright and glistening to let anyone see anything properly. Leliana is still chatting up the Marquis's daughter. A pair of drunken dancers, the woman's mask has slid to the side indecently, bumps into them. All four of them then laugh about it. Leliana kisses the woman on her cheek, and Loghain decides to turn his gaze to the wall in the far back.  
He notices a movement in the shadow. When he saw one, he began noticing others very quickly. The edges of the room were full of them. They could be servants. But servants move to be seen doing their work. These were trying to be sneaky.  
Another bad thing about this evening: Loghain has to admit the heeled shoes are good for _something_. That something is stepping on other people's foot with force, so they jump out of his way. However, it is compensated by the shirt, because its puffy sleeves cushion Loghain's elbows, and therefore he cannot elbow his way to Leliana. He reaches her nevertheless, but he's lost precious time in that.  
He takes Leliana by her wrist. “Your Grace, excuse us for a moment” he doesn't bother to fake an Orlesian accent and drags the bard away from the very important person.  
“What do you even think you are doing?” Leliana is reasonably upset.  
Loghain hisses: “Do you need her alive for long?”  
“What? Of course! I should have known your nationalism-”  
“Then get her out of here. Now. This place is going to be a slaughterhouse within a moment.”  
“I-” Leliana hesitates, but when Loghain nods towards one particularly moving shadow, she understands.  
“We cannot get out everyone, don't event think about it.”  
“I have a colleague here,” Leliana bits her lip, guilt in her eyes. “I cannot leave her here.”  
There isn't time to argue. The way of the weakest resistance is complying. Loghain sighs. “Where?”  
“At the podium. She has the moon mask.”  
“Is she wearing three gold napkins on a string?”  
“No, but it is her alright.”  
“Go save your Marquis girl. I get this.”

“That certainly was one hell of a shovel,” Loghain growls as he spits out blood. It is not his, though. Well, most of it is not, anyway.  
The scantily dressed bard half-hanging on him chuckles: “What? What shovel? Did I miss something?”  
“The Maker. Brought a shovel.”  
She seems to let that roll around her head. It has to hurt, since she still has so much blood in her hair. When Rouge, as she introduced herself, speaks again, it is with the conclusion: “I don't remember that one from the Chant.”  
“It is- Nevermind.”  
Loghain lets himself fall onto the grass and foliage. He feels his legs too much. Shoes with heels were not made for running, much less so in the out of doors. Right now he praises himself for setting up this cache of last solutions beforehand, even though Leliana scoffed. He has some normal shoes to change into, an actual dagger and not the decorative butterknife he was shanded, a shortbow and arrows, a cloak, some-  
“This is pretty bad, huh?”  
Loghain turns to Rouge. “Could be worse. Show me that head.”  
“My head? But don't look too closely or I am going to blush. That is a pun, see? Because- Ow!”  
“Keep quiet.” He runs the alcohol soaked end of the cloak over the wound again to make sure it is clean, and then he pulls Rouge's mask away to bandage it.  
“What do you even think you are doing?”  
“Colleagues, yes, now I see that. I am making sure you don't just die on me. A naked corpse is the last trouble I need now.”  
“What about a frozen corpse?”  
“I could do without.”  
For a woman of such a frail statue and grievous injury, the blonde certainly has no problem taking his cloak and wrapping herself in it. After a while she sighs and says: “We cannot stay here.”  
“No, we really can't. They still might be after us. Better to err on the side of the caution. Not to mention that from the view of the law we are poaching here. Or soon we are going to be, I haven't eaten much, and refuse to go to sleep on an empty stomach today.”  
“What,” she teases as she watches him change footwear, “cannot stay a little fasting?”  
“I refuse to three days in a row.”  
A pout. “Is that why your Lordship graced the banquet tonight? To get his stomach full?”  
“It was a convincing argument, I give it that,” Loghain shrugs. “And Leliana wouldn't stop whining. She gets to be very convincing when she gets like that. Let's get moving.”  
Rouge makes it to her feet. “I have a contact in Halamshiral, in the Crystal Goblet. I need to make it there.”  
“Enjoy the walk.”  
It takes her a moment to find her words again. And when she does, she doesn't get far. She only begins to give him a piece of her mind when an arrow flies past her head.  
The subsequent running they do in silence.

The dawn sees them fainted in a ditch alongside the road. Loghain's guess is that it was some four hours ago the pursuers gave up.2 Three hours since he declared it safe to break a camp. So something under three hours of sleep.  
It brings no joy to say it, but he might be getting a touch too old for this kind of shit.  
“That certainly is a way to start a conversation.”  
“I am not starting a conversation. I am complaining. It's a warning.”  
“What does it warn against?”  
“Unwanted conversations.” Loghain glares at Rouge until she rolls her eyes and tries to save what is left of her updo.  
Loghain catches a hare and Rogue turns half of it into charcoal over the fire. Better breakfast than a hurlock with honey, though Loghain doesn't say that. There might not be much of an actual air of mystery, but Baron Deterre is an useful alias to hide away from noble-butchers under. Besides, Loghain is not exactly a popular name in Orlais.  
After the breakfast they gather their belongings and wits,3 and embark on the way.  
“I thought you were not going with me to Halamshiral.”  
Loghain wants to growl at her. Some people just don't take a hint, do they? Would he have to sew her mouth shut? She'd pout at that, wouldn't she?  
“First, you still have my cloak. Second, I am not, I am going to Lydes.”  
“Those two are both along the Highway.”  
Loghain would give Maker-knows-what for more of that cherry wine right now.

\---------------

1Which he did not.

2Because Rouge killed one of them, and Loghain himself the remaining three.

3There isn't really much to gather. Rouge bled out most of her wits the last night, and there are strongly supported claims that Loghain hasn't had any to start with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you are thinking. Yes, I settles for another land-name. Loghain's life sucks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been easier if I read The Masked Empire, I guess. Or played DA:I. Or finished DA:O. eh, such is life.
> 
> Update 7th JAN 2021: I've finished DA:O (and DA:A). I don't know how about you all, but in _my_ playthrough Riordan fell onto the ground and like every member of my team who is felled and gets up when the combat is over as long as at least one party member lives, Riordan is fine. He refused the injury kit, though, so he wasn't present for the epilogue, as he was with many many broken bones and blood cough in the medbay.  
> (I didn't know Riordan dies and I do not feel like correcting any tags and rewriting three specific words in the fic. Somebody Lives tag is there? Yes. Riordan deserved better anyway.)

Loghain considers their options. He is certain that there shouldn't be any survivors of the slaughter of yesterday, and that whoever responsible will try to make certain of that. When they make a break,1 he rips the feathers out of his mask as if he was plucking a chicken. After that he manages to scrape most of the paint off with a knife.  
The woman – Loghain is hesitant on calling her Rouge, because he's reached the conclusion the name is only slightly less fake than Baron Duterre – watches him a bit puzzled. Eventually she caves in: “What are you doing?”  
“If they are looking for us, they have names, maybe, and descriptions. We should change as many of that as possible. That includes the masks.”  
She watches him further as he destroys the mask. Carefully she than reaches out and takes her own mask off. It crumples in her hands quickly, cheap and fragile mache painted to look like precious metal.  
Loghain is quite glad for having his face covered, because his surprise would be hard to hide otherwise. Not because she's bared herself like so. He expected... He is not certain what kind of a face, really. Something remarkable. Stunning beauty. Or horrible pox scars. A missing eye. Mismatched eyes. Elven features.  
No, what is underneath the mask is a woman's face, nothing less, nothing more. She has a bit of cheeks, not that much of a forehead, a gentle curve of nose. A pair of eyes to go with it. He'd probably overlook this face in a crowd unless he was searching for it. He has to give it to her that for a bard it is a quality of appearance.  
“The best disguise at a masquarede is no disguise, no?” She smiles at him.  
He cannot do much but nod in agreement. Though for himself it probably doesn't apply. His face is too recognisable. That is what you get for getting it painted on so many portraits. Damn you, Maric, for that.  
They move on.

After the evening falls, Loghain makes a camp for them underneath one of the arches of the Imperial Highway. The road hasn't collapsed in this spot, so most likely people would pass over them without noticing their little resting spot.  
Rouge who is not Rouge, seems to be cold, because were she any closer to the camp fire, her shoes would catch ablaze.  
“You have very far to being a gentleman,” she comments as she watches him coating a duck in mud so he can bake it in the embers without leaving traces of feathers behind. Loghain doesn't grace it with a commentary, though.  
“That is me roubting you being gentle, not being a man. Not that it matters what you are, ha! Baron Duterre. Nobody, yet everyone. You haven't properly introduced yourself to me.”  
“Neither did you.” Loghain notices it has taken the wind from her sails for a while, and feels satisfied. It lasts him until he manages to put the duck in the fire and sit down to wait until it is done which moment the bard chooses to rest herself against him.  
“That is alright. I do not like gentle men.” Her voice sounds drowsy, but her breathing give away her being too lively.  
He considers the hand on his thigh. “Look. I am not adverse to that idea in general. You are irritating as all demons of the Fade, true, but you are good looking, and it has been a considerable time since I've been with a woman. But right now we are too busy watching our own back than getting sidetracked like this.”  
The bard bites her lip. In the light of the fire her blonde hair seems aflame itself, there where it isn't covered with blood or bandages. It does look good on her, it makes her look real. “I... haven't been told no before.”  
“Get used to it, then. I oppose people a lot.”  
“Bah, you Fereldans and your dog attitude.”

The next day they meet a group of mounted chevaliers. Loghain keeps out of their way and Rouge hides behind him. Halamshiral is on the horizon, they shall reach it in the afternoon if Makers wills it so. Loghain's guess is that the glorified bastards and their horses are to investigate the carnage he and Rouge left behind. Orlesians certainly do not know how to party, he reminds himself.  
“We are almost there,” Rouge points out the obvious, “and yet I still do not know who you truly are.” When Loghain doesn't acknowledge it, she adds: “So I want to play a guessing game. I shall ask you question, and you will answer me ye or no, yes?”  
Loghain did not know that the Maker loves digging holes so much.  
“Were you born in Ferelden? Hey. You _have_ to answer, those are the rules. Those are the rules, you know.”  
Loghain turns to her sharply, and pushes his mask up into his hair. “There. Happy? Can we go now?”  
Rouge's eyes widen. Yes, no doubt, she has recognized him. Pictures of him in many places and all that. He can see amusement dancing around the corners of her lips. Oh great, she finds it hilarious.  
“My my, they did tell me you were a _beast,_ but I simply thought they were exaggerating.”  
“For Maker's love, be silent for ten minutes, that is all I ask for.”

To the city they slip unnoticed. The problems arise, however, when Rouge, now with her mask again, is refused entry to the High Quarter.  
Loghain cannot blame the guards much, the two of them are bloody and torn. He wouldn't let people like themselves anywhere either.  
He is also very close to snapping Rouge's neck, because she's lowered herself to deceiving the guards, telling them that they are obliged to let the Empress's paramour to enter. All would be fine with Loghain if Rouge didn't point at him. Now he is certain she is purposefully provoking him. What riles him up even more is that it works.  
“I am going to kill you. I am going to carve your liver out and eat them raw for this, I swear,” he whispers to her once the guards are out of the earshot.  
“I'd love to see that. Human livers are one of the most toxic pieces tissue north of the Wilds. Especially in Orlais where poison is more abundant than water. You'd die in agony. I'd be delighted.”  
Loghain delivers Rouge to the Crystal Goblet. The sooner he is rid of her, the happier is going to be. He even escorts her inside where she is taken away from him by another masked probably bard woman.  
The two spy minstrels retreat upstairs to a room one of them has rented. As she enters the staircase, Rouge looks over her shoulder and waves at Loghain a little bit. He nods back.  
Two days later when he is caught in a sleet on the road that he remembers that Rouge has never returned his coat.

In all honesty, Loghain has been on a good path to forgetting the whole Deterre-Rouge incident and not even yell at Leliana for it the next time he sees her. For now he is content in Winged Keep in Val Royeaux and he prays for a transfer to somewhere else than Orlais. Why can't he be in Anderfels? Antiva? Ferelden, even though that'd go probably badly? Just anywhere that is not Orlais.  
His body aches, all muscles sore and every joint protesting additional movement after the day spent training. He is treating himself with some black bread with cheese and bitter tea. In Val Royeaux, the austerity of the Grey Wardens is a soothing balm to his soul. Things are at peace for the moment given.  
Then Riordan barges into the room.  
“Loghain, there you are!”2  
“Here I am. Whatever is on fire this time, do I really have to handle it?”  
“A messenger from the Imperial palace.”  
Loghain considers that statement. Then carefully he tries: “If you throw the corpse to the pigsty, there won't be much left by tomorrow. You don't need me for that surely.”  
“Jest all you like, but he came here for you.” Riordan's face darkens and he continues with his arms crossed on his chest. A defensive stance. “Whatever you did, you are wanted in the Imperial Palace. By the order of the Empress herself.”  
Loghain curses.  
“My words exactly. Now you better move it. We don't need to get the whole Order banned out of Orlais because of you.”  
Being a Grey warden in Orlais comes with a mandatory mask. They are porcelain, silver in colour and shaped like overlapping feathers, supposedly gryphon. Loghhain hasn't seen a gryphon, so to him it is just lengthy stylised feathers which he cannot mes up with. Since each Warden is supposed to personalize his mask, Loghain painted the tip of his red, struck by a wave nostalgia for his forfeit coat of arms. He's got to wear it exactly twice before. It itches him on the eyebrows.  
The Imperial Palace is busy with activity as is proper for such a place, even this late in the evening. Loghain was expecting the throne room, but instead he is ushered to the side corridors until he ends up in what he considers to be a drawing room, or perhaps the reading room? He's never got to understand the difference between the two.  
Empress Celene has her back turned to him and hasn't acknowledged his presence yet. The door closes behind him. Much to his horror, the lock turns as well.  
He considers his next move. If he was here for himself, it would probably be regicide. But he represents the Grey Wardens too...  
Slowly, mindful of the changing weather, Loghain lowers himself to kneel before the Empress of Orlais. He hates every inch with passion fit to burn nations.  
The Empress turns around and puts aside her feather-silk fan. The silence in the room is becoming rather hot and tense. Loghain's feet are sinking into the rich carpet. He's surely going to have to get all this lint out of his armour later and it is going to be a major pain in the arse.  
“It is a custom,” Empress Celene starts and Loghain nearly chokes when he hears her speak because the voice is familiar, “for the ruling monarch to thank those who perform them great service.”  
Rouge. She is Rouge. No, no, incorrect. Rouge is her. Oh blast. Blood and damnation. Seriously? Is this what Loghain's life has come to?  
“I have been pondering a proper way to show my gratitude. It is not often a sworn enemy of Orlais saves its Empress, after all.” She gives him a pause to comment, but Loghain decides to swallow his remark about it not really being consensual on his part. As such, Celene continues: “I have been flirting with the idea of a title and land, but while I appreciate good irony, I am not cruel for the sake of it. I have therefore decided to settle the little... discrepancy between us.”  
Loghain curses.  
Celene has the smile of a wolf. “Oh yes. We are just about to.”

\---------------

1It would be nice to say the break was made for the lady to catch her breath. Unfortunately as fate would have it, it was for Loghain's knee to get its act back together. Eve since he got shot there it just isn't what it use to be.

2Loghain has been here the whole day, and Riordan is well aware of that. He just takes petty vengeance in annoying Loghain when he feels like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed me comments? Comments yummy.


End file.
